


Wisdom of the Elders

by lynnenne



Category: The Originals (TV)
Genre: Gen, Historical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 15:43:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1020460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynnenne/pseuds/lynnenne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elijah reflects on their days as a human family, and how that dysfunctional path has led to the one they now walk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wisdom of the Elders

**Author's Note:**

> The Iroquoian word _kanata_ means "village" or "community." Based on the fictional location of Mystic Falls, the original inhabitants of the region would have been either Iroquois or Algonquin. (Incidentally, _kanata_ is also the word from which Canada takes its name.)

There were twenty seasons between myself and Niklaus. When we were children we did not count time in years; our parents left that custom behind when they fled the Old World. Everyone in our village tracked time by the seasons, by the slow march of the sunrise along the horizon—a little further south each day until the snow flew, a little further north until the monarchs returned to blanket the meadows with orange.  
  
I have few recollections of those early years. My memory is long, longer than anyone's ever should be, and one can only unspool a thread so far before it becomes frayed and torn and tangled in upon itself. I remember a large, wild cat that used to scavenge the village at dusk, and how it once scratched Finn's arm when he tried to feed it. I recall a close childhood friend, with whom I fought with sticks and wrestled in the mud. The boy died of a fever when we were both small. I cannot remember his name.  
  
But my strongest memory is of my mother, in the prime of her life, in the seasons before Niklaus' birth. She walked with purpose and laughed with Ayana and her hair shone long and golden, dappled as the woods in autumn.  
  
Finn and I were both old enough to accompany her into the forest, where we would help gather berries and roots, mushrooms and herbs. She was spry and quick in those days, neither heavy with belly nor carrying a babe on her back. It was the longest time since her marriage that she passed without bearing a child.  
  
I also remember a man, young and strong with gleaming teeth, who would sometimes join us on our foraging. My mother would smile and laugh and sometimes sing with the man. Like most small boys, I thought my mother the loveliest woman in the village; but I never saw her look more radiant than during those days.

 

 

 

*

  
After Niklaus was born, the young man with gleaming teeth married and moved to another village. My mother stopped smiling for a long time.

The light did not return to her eyes until, as she put it, the heavens blessed her with a daughter. She had always wanted a girl, and she took special care with Rebekah, teaching her witchcraft and, when Father was away on hunts, how to wield a knife.

Despite the bond with her daughter, Niklaus remained our mother's favourite. The others resented this, especially Kol, but I always felt a particular fondness for Klaus. Before Rebekah came, Niklaus was the only person in the village who could make our mother smile.

 

 

 

*

  
My father was the only man we knew of who owned weapons of steel. The other men in the village wielded spears or hammers or the bow and arrow, but there were no blacksmiths in this land. The alchemy of the forge existed only in the Old World, and the only swords we had ever seen were the ones Father brought with him from that fabled place. He kept them locked in a chest, also brought with him from across the seas, and wore the key beneath his tunic, tied onto a leather necklace.

Father was not a good tracker, which was the skill that the hunters prized above all. But he was a superb swordsman and his weapons quickly proved valuable in bringing down large game. And he possessed other skills, such as knowledge of how to defend against enemy raids. Mother said he had the respect of the village elders.

Father had a voice which commanded others to listen, but the elders did not approve of the way he often raised it against us in anger. They chided him for this, but he considered the family _his_ and refused to heed their words. Sometimes I would overhear the elders whispering amongst themselves. Mikael is foreign, they would say—accustomed to living within stone walls, in settlements so large you cannot see the end of them. He will never understand what it means to be _kanata_.

I wasn't yet old enough to join the men on the hunt, so I supervised my siblings while they played or drew water or gathered sticks for the fire. Some days, I would hear Father out in the woods, raising his voice against Mother, the sound of his anger carrying across the river. I wanted to go to her, to defend her against his rage, in that naïve belief children have that they can withstand the blows of a bear, if only they strike in the right place or curl themselves up very small. But I had never disobeyed my father in my life, and I had seen him beat our enemies until they choked to death on their own blood.

Mother had powerful magic and Father should have been afraid of her, but he was not. Instead, everyone was afraid of him.

Niklaus began practicing sword-fighting as soon as he was old enough to wield a stick. I remember he told me, "I want to be just like Father."

 

 

 

*

  
Our father spent many hours teaching his sons to wield weapons. I was somewhere around the age of 13 when I was finally strong enough to practice with one of his broadswords. Those are some of my most cherished memories, the only time he was patient with me—with any of us. I was methodical and careful in my lessons, and of this, he approved.

My task was to practice until I could consistently knock the sword from his grasp. It involved many long hours of repetition but it was not a chore. I loved the way the blade flashed silver in sunlight, the way the steel gleamed after I polished it, unstained with blood or rust. It shone brighter than Ayana's necklaces.

I was perhaps 16, almost a man, before I was able to defeat my father in combat. He smiled, clapped my shoulder and informed me I did not need any more lessons. I remember the warmth of his hand through my tunic and the shine of his eyes.

It was about this time when Niklaus first picked up the blade. He was already more accomplished than I had been at his age, but he was overconfident and made careless mistakes. Father found him the most frustrating of all his pupils.

During the third month, Niklaus committed the mortal sin of failing to pay attention. He turned when Kol taunted him, "You look like a mouse doing battle against a bobcat." Klaus hurled his sword to the ground just as Father was about to swing at him, and the blade made a shallow slice in Klaus' upper arm. Niklaus did not feel it; he ran at Kol and tackled him into the dirt, but before they could begin fighting Father grabbed Niklaus by the back of the neck and hauled him to his feet. Then he struck Klaus across the face with the back of his fist.

I had never seen a man strike a child. I don't believe anyone in our village had. My vision turned grey, the blood pumping fast behind my eyes. I advanced, until Father pushed Niklaus away and he stumbled forward, into my arms.

"He's not ready to learn," Father bellowed, which was absurd because the boy had been preparing for this day since he began to walk. When I told this to Father, he replied, "Then you teach him."

I looked down at Niklaus's bleeding face; he was still a full head shorter than I was. I saw myself unsheathing my sword—it was mine now; Father had given it to me once my lessons were complete. I saw the blade swinging cleanly through my father's neck, separating his head from his torso.

Instead, I replied, "Yes, Father," and led Niklaus off to treat his wounds.

 

 

 

*

  
That was the first of many times I thought of killing Mikael. I had any number of opportunities. But the truth was, I loved my father. We all did. And Klaus craved his approval more than anyone's.

"Why is he so much harder on Niklaus?" I asked my mother one day, as Klaus lay quiet at her side, asleep.

A darkness passed over Mother's face when she replied, "Mikael sees too much of himself in Niklaus. His recklessness, his temper—these are demons that your father has spent his life trying to slay."

He would pursue them for a thousand more years, and in the end, they would defeat him.

I wonder, now, whether my father knew all along that Niklaus was not his son. But if he ever doubted, he need only look at the boy to convince himself otherwise. How could any child so like Mikael—in countenance, in temperament, in ambition and foolish pride—be anything other than his own?

 

 

 

*

  
There were twenty seasons between Niklaus and Henrik. By the time our youngest sibling was old enough to bear a sword, Finn and I were on the hunt, away for days at a time. It fell to Niklaus to teach Henrik, but the boy did not care for fighting.

Instead, he was fascinated with the wolves—as fascinated as Niklaus had always been. Before that fateful night when Henrik was killed, there were several other incidents when he and Niklaus snuck away to watch the wolves run free. Father discovered them every time, and every time, he beat Niklaus mercilessly. But while Klaus was afraid of Father, he remained stubbornly defiant. It was his pride that led to Henrik's death, to the endless, immortal path we found ourselves on.

I wonder, if I had killed my father on that first day, whether Niklaus would have been quite so keen to run with the wolves—or whether he would have taken greater care to protect Henrik, the way I should have protected him.

 

 

 

*

  
Mystic Falls now stands where the village once stood. The Council rules in the elders' stead but possesses a mere fraction the wisdom. I have lived a thousand years, yet I feel as if I, too, lack the elders' understanding of community, of kinship. Rebekah and I live and die at Klaus' whim; we wake and sleep at the mercy of his daggers. I have not learned the lessons my father taught me. The first time Niklaus betrayed us, I should have struck him dead.

But then I would be the elder of an empty village, and it is more hollow to live forever alone than to slumber peacefully in a coffin. As I sleep here, in the darkness, I hear the whispers of the elders echoing in my ears. And I long, more than anything, to once again know what it means to be _kanata_.

 

 


End file.
